Saturday, June 2, 2012

Lonely Frisco for me then--which would buzz a few years later when my soul got stranger. Now I was only a youth on a mountain. I stooped, looked down between my legs, and watched the world upside down. The brown hills led off towards Nevada; to the South was my legendary Hollywood; to the North the mysterious Shasta country. Down below was everything; the barracks where we stole our tiny box of condiments, when Dostioffski's tiny face had glared at us, where Henry had me hide the toy gun and where our squeaking yells had transpired. I spun around till I was dizzy; I thought I'd fall down as in a dream, clear off the precipice. "Oh where is the girl I love?"

I thought, and looked everywhere, as I had looked everywhere in the little world below.

And before me was the great raw bulge and bulk of my American continent; somewhere far across gloomy crazy New York was throwing up its cloud of dust and brown steam. There is something brown and holy about the East; and California is white like washlines and empty souled --at least thats what I thought then. I'd learn better later. Now it was time to pursue my moon along.

In the morning Henri and Diane were asleep as I quietly packed and slipped out the window the same way I'd come in, and left Marin City with my canvas bag. And I never spent that night on the old ghostship and Henri and I were lost.

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